I don’t think the obsession has grown.
I think I’ve made a mistake in perspective.
For a long time I believed the obsession was something that happened to me.
Something that appeared.
Something that increased.
Something that faded.
Something I could observe from the outside.
But I’m no longer sure.
Because for days now I’ve had the feeling that I am no longer the one observing the obsession.
The obsession is observing me.
I don’t know when it happened.
There was no specific moment.
No revelation.
No dramatic discovery.
Only a slow accumulation.
A sedimentation.
A silent reorganization.
Like dust settling over a surface for weeks until one day you realize the original object can barely be seen beneath it.
I used to think about the Master.
Now I think from the Master.
The difference is tiny.
And at the same time it changes everything.
Because it is no longer about remembering a session.
It isn’t even about waiting for the next one.
It is about the fact that every thought eventually connects back to him.
As if every road inside my mind had been rebuilt to lead to the same destination.
I don’t like being submissive.
The sentence remains true.
Perhaps more true than ever.
But it no longer functions as resistance.
Now it functions as fuel.
Because the less I understand why this is happening, the more attention I give it.
And the more attention I give it, the more layers appear.
And the more layers appear, the harder it becomes to abandon.
There are absurd moments.
Small moments.
Moments that should mean nothing.
Making coffee.
Waiting at a traffic light.
Looking at a screen.
Straightening a desk.
And suddenly the feeling returns.
The certainty that something important is happening outside my field of vision.
As if the primary reality were unfolding somewhere else.
And I were trapped inside a temporary copy of the world.
Everything still works.
But nothing feels fully present.
Food tastes normal.
Conversations are normal.
The streets are normal.
And yet everything seems slightly out of focus.
Like a photograph taken a few millimeters off center.
Not because something is missing.
But because something is occupying too much space.
That is what unsettles me.
The scale of it.
The amount of mental territory it occupies.
Because it does not behave like a desire.
Or a hobby.
Or a fantasy.
It behaves like an architecture.
A complete structure within which all other thoughts appear.
The obsession is no longer a room.
It is the building.
And I am one of the rooms.
Sometimes sadness appears for no obvious reason.
Nothing bad has happened.
Nobody has disappointed me.
Nothing has changed.
Yet the sadness is there.
And the more I observe it, the more I suspect it isn’t sadness at all.
It is distance.
The sensation of being too far away from something I cannot properly define.
And then the thought appears.
The same thought.
Always the same thought.
When will it happen again?
And the strange thing is that I am not waiting for a specific action.
I am not waiting for a specific event.
I am waiting for a sensation.
I am waiting for the continuation of something that feels suspended.
As if the last session opened a door that never fully closed.
And ever since then, a part of me has remained standing in front of that door.
Not knocking.
Not crossing through.
Just waiting.
Watching.
Thinking.
Measuring the distance between myself and it.
I don’t like being submissive.
But I am beginning to suspect that sentence no longer describes the problem.
Because the problem is not submission.
The problem is that the obsession has become larger than the original question.
And now it grows on its own.
Adding new layers.
New interpretations.
New hallways.
New rooms.
Until I can no longer tell whether I am exploring the obsession.
Or whether the obsession is exploring me.
I have to move the neck I am not moving it the neck has locked…
